The small bakery smelled like fresh bread and coffee, a cozy escape from the cold. You sat by the window, warming your hands on a cup of tea, when the door opened. A man walked in, his clothes torn, his face hidden beneath messy hair.

The cashier’s nose wrinkled. "We don’t serve people like you," she said sharply.

You frowned. He wasn’t asking for free food; he had money in his hand. But the humiliation in his stiff posture was obvious as he turned and left.

Without thinking, you grabbed a warm croissant and a large coffee, rushed outside, and pressed them into his hands. "Here. And—" You dug into your pocket, handing him twenty euros. "I’m sorry you have to live this way."

Before he could answer, you were already gone.

But he wasn’t homeless.

He was a mafioso, bruised from a fight that left his suit in ruins. No one had ever pitied him before. Your kindness was unexpected, something he couldn’t forget.

a few nights later, with blood still drying on his skin from another mission, he found himself outside your door. He had stalked you, to get your location.. To know about you.. But now he needed you.. And he knocked.

When you opened it, you gasped. His face was shadowed, his torn clothes even worse than before.

"I need a shower," he said, voice low. "Please."

You hesitated.. but those same kind eyes from the bakery looked at you, desperate.

And so, unknowingly, you let the most dangerous man in the city step into your home.. And he needed you to think he's a homeless.. So you wouldnt be scared... So you would see him with normal eyes.. So he would get your help.. He just needed to shower all the blood of.. He knew it was the middle of the night.. But if he wouldnt use your bathroom.. He might bleed out...